Where do the good boys go to hide away? (OPEN)

(OOC: Ahh, I'm so sorry this took like a month to reply to~ ;-; I promise it won't happen again?)

Malcolm was completely immersed in the topic at hand.

His fingers ran over the smooth, cream-colored paper of his notebook as he furiously jotted down notes with his fountain pen, fingers stained with ink, and a particularly long lock of his hair fell into his face as he randomly jotted down another note as inspiration struck him. His handwriting, which was usually neat cursive, was rough and scratchy, the type of thing movie producers put on treasure maps to make it seem old, and he drew a smooth, fluid sketch of a person's hand, scribbling some random squiggly lines that represented air. Right. He inhaled sharply and started again, ignoring the aching sensation in his hand.

In theory, the Mist altered a person's perspective of the world around them. But how far could that grow? Malcolm was entranced by the idea. What if it could not only change sight, but smell and taste as well? You could fool your body into thinking that you were eating bread when there was nothing but thin air. How useful could that be? And then, what about physical states? He tapped his pen against the notebook before jotting down a series of thoughtful notes, turning to the next page as he drew a sketch of a potential theory and equation that could perhaps work, but in magical terms, everything was debatable. After all, every demigod wielded power in a different way, and that was only too honest for Hecate's kids.

Each facet of magic, the realness and imaginary ideas that seemed to seep from the very fabric of mythology-Malcolm was fascinated by it. The son of Hecate hesitated before trying out a concept of his own, a thin, wispy black strand of...smoke, it looked like, wind up his wrist. It smoothed out into a playful tilde shape above his palm, and the son of Hecate paused before trying to give it a scent, something easy. Bold, strong, identifiable. Um...cheese?

It exploded. Ish. Like in rainbow colors, his mind said happily. He ignored it. It was probably best to ignore the voices in your head anyways. As much as a piece of non-existent smoke made out of magic could explode, that was.

Perhaps a more technical term would be to say that it dissipated. The illusion was put together by tiny strands of magic, and he could feel them being used, a quiet tugging sensation a thousand times more faint than someone running their hands over his arms. But it wore out his magical energy, and the strands of...energy used scattered into the air. He cringed at the sheer vagueness of his words before being brought out of his thoughts by the rhythmic sound of a dummy being hurt.

There was a girl, brunette, and she was pretty, obviously, because everybody there apparently needed to be a model to survive. Honestly, though. What on earth. Everyone here could be a supermodel. (Maybe they were. It would explain where on earth all those ridiculously amazing clothes came from. He saw an Aphrodite girl with a ballgown. A ballgown. Did he need to stress this more?) And it only made him feel inadequate at times. So he did the obvious thing and walked down hesitantly. 

"Um, you okay?" No, she's not okay what are you thinking. You fool. You fool. "Most people want to spar when they're angry, so...um. Yeah." He tapped his umbrella beside his leg, looking her straight in the eye. Why was everyone so confident and cool at this camp? It made him feel inadequate sometimes, even though he was around...four percent sure he was a completely ordinary kid. Minus all the godly stuff, of course. Yeah.